


So that's how it is

by malmo



Series: L’ultimo Lupo [1]
Category: L'ultimo Terrestre (2011), L'ultimo Terrestre | The Last Man On Earth (2011), The Old Guard (Movie 2020), Wolf (2013)
Genre: Crossover Pairings, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, It’s Joe/Nicky if you squint, Sex Work, The author could've researched boxing but did not, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, neighbors to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26993926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malmo/pseuds/malmo
Summary: Majid is a lonely Dutch boxer who's recently moved to Rome. He meets Roberta in a club. There are sparks and shawarma.
Relationships: Majid/Roberta, Roberta/Majid
Series: L’ultimo Lupo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021534
Comments: 43
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ririsasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ririsasy/gifts).



> Okay! So this [Majid/Roberta gifset](https://maghrib-genova.tumblr.com/post/628356985170149376) by ririsasy has been buying up all the real estate in my brain and no one wrote a fic for it, so I'm doing it. Hoping these two crazy kids will let me get some sleep now. 
> 
> Based on Marwan Kenzari's character Majid in Wolf and Luca Marinelli's character Roberta in L'ultimo Terrestre. Let's take two sad movies and give them a fluffy ending with the promise of neverending happiness and gelato, shall we?  
> 
> 
> Minor TW for transphobic comments said by a character who is seconds away from being punched in the face.

The clubs in Italy were more colorful than the ones in Utrecht. Majid felt out of place in his black leather jacket amid the rainbow of colors pulsing on the dance floor. Everyone was so fashionable, so carefree, so comfortable in their own skin.

Majid had been in Rome for four months, but it was still so strange to him. Being in a place where the skies weren’t grey and people were happy. 

Ezio and Pietro, his training mates since he’d arrived in Italy, were chattering at the bar beside him, in that Roman dialect that Majid still didn’t understand, even though his Italian was getting better. He hadn’t spoken Dutch in weeks. His mother called and left voicemails, and his little brother Tarik texted him things like “Have you had gelato yet?” but he always found an excuse not to reply.

His father hadn’t spoken to him since the rainy night he left the Netherlands, like a rat fleeing a sinking ship. A Roman trainer had offered him a chance for a new life, to fight as _il_ _Lupo_ in a different country where his past couldn’t catch up to him, and he had to take it. No matter how loud his father yelled or how much his mother cried.

He wished he could be there for Tarik as he grew up, but he told himself that Tarik was better off without him. Majid had never met a problem that he couldn’t make exponentially worse, or a good thing that he couldn’t ruin.

Then, he saw her. An unusually tall woman, his height at least, dancing with such joy and abandon that Majid ached to feel that same sense of freedom. She was dressed all in white, with a tank top that exposed her stomach, a tube skirt so tight it was a stitch away from obscene, and long raven hair that swept over her eyes as she moved.

Her shoulders were awfully broad for a woman. Majid wondered if she was a swimmer, an athlete like him, maybe he could ask her as a way to introduce himself . . .

She locked eyes with him. Even under the rainbow lights of the dance floor, Majid was stunned by their brilliant blue-green color. This had to be what people meant in American romance films when they said “Her eyes sparkle like diamonds.” 

She beckoned him over and he was pulled like a magnet, powerless against her.

He felt storm clouds in his eyes parting when she smiled at him.  
  
They danced without touching for a bit, still smiling at each other—Majid couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much. His cheek muscles were starting to hurt.

Finally, she looped her long arms around his neck and said in his ear, “I’m Roberta.”

“Majid,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re not Italian,” she said, in a way that was charming to Majid’s ears, even though he’d been rolling his eyes at the same statement for months.

“I’m Dutch,” he said.

“Oh! A nice Dutch boy,” she said, with a wolfish grin.

Majid started to say something equally flirtatious, but Ezio tapped him on the shoulder.

“Lupo, we’re closing our tab,” he said. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

“I’ll be right back,” said Majid.

“I’ll be here!” said Roberta, easing back into her own rhythm without missing a beat.

“It’s awful early to close our tab, isn’t it?” said Majid, as Ezio dragged him back to the bar, where Pietro was waiting.

“We’re not. Just wanted to give you a heads-up on your girl over there,” said Ezio. “She’s not really a girl.”

“She _is_ a girl, dummy, just a different kind,” snapped Pietro.

Majid just shrugged, with nothing in his eyes or body language to give a hint of his true feelings away. That’s how he’d dealt with the world since he was Tarik’s age, and it still had nearly crushed him. 

The truth was, the back of his mind had already put together the broad shoulders and muscled arms and flat chest, but he’d been too caught up to care. All that mattered was the lightness he felt when those deep-set eyes looked into his, and stirred a part of Majid’s heart that he’d assumed no longer existed. 

Pietro’s gentle but firm voice shook him out of his thoughts. “Majid, Roberta is a regular here. She’s—she works a corner nearby most nights, and comes to the club when business is slow.”

“So she’s a drug dealer?” scoffed Majid.

If only his new friends knew who he ran with back in Utrecht.

“She’s a _prostitute_ ,” said Ezio.

“She’s a _sex worker_ ,” said Pietro. “Ezio, don’t forget that I know exactly where to punch you to shatter all the bones in your face.”

“All we’re saying is be careful,” said Ezio. “She might still be on the clock, and you don’t know what equipment she’s working with.”

“Ezio, I swear to God—”

“I don’t care that she’s—whatever you call it here. Trans?” said Majid. “She seems . . . kind.”

He couldn’t express it to his friends if he had a thousand years to try, but every muscle in Majid's body was aching for someone kind.

“If you like her, then go for it,” said Pietro. “Just be safe.”

“Use lube!” said Ezio. Pietro swatted the back of his head.

* * *

Roberta seemed surprised to see Majid back on the dance floor, but she smiled and wrapped her arms around his shoulders again and they fell right back into a comfortable rhythm, trading small talk while swaying together, the distance between them closing with each song, until they were pressing tight together and whispering in each other’s ears. Before too long, the music was only a distant hum in Majid’s ears as he and Roberta slowly rocked to a song that only they could hear.

“Want to get out of here?” said Roberta, and Majid startled a little. Had he understood her correctly? Her hooded eyes seemed to say yes. 

“My place or yours?” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t cracking.

“Yours,” said Roberta, as she took his arm with a confidence that Majid envied.

The air was crisp as they emerged into the night, and Roberta shivered a little. Majid wordlessly took off his black leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders, and she blanched a bit. It was the first time all night he’d seen her look unsure.

“Okay?” he said. “You looked cold.”

“ _Tutto bene_ ,” she said, tightening it around her. “No one’s ever done that for me before. I wasn’t sure what you were up to!”

Majid felt his face drop. She was so bright and cheerful, even while saying such a sad thing. 

He put his arm around her as they walked in comfortable silence to his apartment building, only a few blocks away.

When they stopped in front of the door, Roberta blinked a few times. “Why are we at my building?”

“This is _my_ building,” said Majid. “I live on the third floor.”

She playfully smacked his arm. “I’m on the fifth floor! Oh, I shouldn’t have told you that, in case you’re a psycho. Oh well!”

Majid did not like the thought of Roberta carelessly spilling personal information to someone who _was_ a psycho, but he pushed it out of his mind as Roberta pulled him inside.

“It’s funny, I’ve never seen you,” she said, as they waited for the elevator, which had a mind of its own and took many unsanctioned breaks.

“I get up before dawn and come home late,” shrugged Majid. “I train all the time. I’m a boxer.”

“That explains the muscles,” grinned Roberta. “Well, I stay out most nights and then sleep during the day. We’re on opposite schedules! Still, you’d think we would’ve run into each other on the elevator when you’re leaving at dawn. That’s usually when I come home!”

“I never take the elevator,” said Majid. “Taking the stairs counts as training.”

“ _Madre di Dio_ , you’re one of those,” said Roberta. “If I went down the stairs in these heels, I’d fall so fast I’d beat the elevator.”

Majid laughed, louder than he expected. It had been a long time since someone had made him genuinely laugh. But when they got to his apartment, he was suddenly nervous.

Roberta swanned in like she owned the place. “So clean! Your mother must be very proud.”

Majid managed a pained smile. His apartment was indeed spotless, since it was barely lived in, and he’d been able to buy some semi-decent furniture after his first victory. Still, he felt like he needed to impress Roberta, convince her that he wasn’t a total waste of her time. But his mind offered no options except to stand still and stare at the floor.

“ _Va bene_?”

“I’m fine,” he said, in the squeakiest voice he’d ever heard emerge from his body. She seemed to read his mind without him saying more, and approached him carefully, like a wild animal, her hands out to show she meant no harm.

“How about we dance some more?” she said softly, folding him into her arms again.

“Yes,” he sighed, melting against her. “Oh, I don’t have any music, except on my phone, and it’s not really dancing music—”

“We don’t need it,” she whispered in his ear. He’d started swaying perfectly with her without even thinking. She rested her head on his shoulder and he buried his nose in her hair. She started humming a song that seemed vaguely familiar— _Un’emozione_ something? Whatever it was, it was slow and steady, and soon she wasn’t humming any song at all, just soothing sounds against Majid’s neck that quieted his mind in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. For the first time, in a long time, he was able to forget everything . . . everything he left behind and all the uncertainty before him . . . there was no world outside of Roberta’s arms. 

Majid had no idea how much time had passed, but all of a sudden they were on his bed, and Roberta was kissing him, and he was kissing her back, and her tank top and his T-shirt were on the floor, and her skin was so warm under his hands as her long fingers traced every one of his muscles. It occurred to him that everything he’d done with Tessa back in Utrecht was like teenagers making out in a car compared to this. Roberta had _skills_. He tried not to think about how she’d acquired them, but once Roberta’s hands moved to his belt buckle, he didn’t think about anything anymore.

Roberta took the lead, checking in to make sure he was okay, that he liked what she was doing, that he wanted more, and he was happy to surrender to her, even though he’d never done that with anyone, always had a steel wall around him, always primed with a tough face, a sucker punch, a loaded gun. But with Roberta, he was a doll in her hands, happy to go wherever she wanted, confident that she would take care of him, make him feel good—better than good, actually. She guided him and praised him and made him feel like the only people who existed in the world were the two of them.

The feel of her dick against his, and of his inside her, felt familiar and safe, not strange and alien. He pulled her close when they were finished, and she rested her head on his chest, which was still pounding hard. He kissed her forehead, and she sighed happily and clutched his hip, and he wondered if no one had ever kissed her forehead either.

Majid had almost fallen asleep when the comforting weight on his chest suddenly lifted. Roberta was pulling on her clothes.

“You can stay, if you want,” he said, trying to hide his eagerness.

“I like to sleep alone,” she said, gently squeezing his cheek before leaving only the faint scent of perfume in her wake.

Majid had trouble falling asleep, wondering if the entire night had been a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you with me, Sleeping Beauty?” said Ezio, gently knocking Majid’s chin with his glove. “Or are you thinking about that—”

“Don’t call her that.”

“You didn’t know what I was going to say!” said Ezio. Majid just glared at him, and Ezio raised his hands as a truce.

Ezio was a cocky little shit, but Majid liked him. He was a good guy at heart who couldn’t help what came out of his mouth most days. He wasn’t much of a fighter, yet, but his father and grandfather had been boxers before him, and he just wanted to make them proud.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you were so _into_ her. I thought your people were more conservative about that sort of thing. Isn’t it illegal to cross-dress where you’re from?”

Maybe he didn’t like Ezio after all.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” said Pietro.

Majid liked Pietro best. Pietro’s mother was Italian but his father was Moroccan, like Majid’s parents. They’d bonded over growing up between two cultures, and the conflicting expectations that were pushed on them. Pietro was dependable, thoughtful, looked before he leapt—all things Majid wished of himself.

“How am _I_ a fucking idiot?” said Ezio. “I’m just telling the truth!”

“I bet Roberta would be more welcome at my house than yours,” said Pietro.

Majid chuckled, but worry suddenly gnawed at him. How could he explain Roberta to his parents, and _Tarik_ for God’s sake? How could he explain his family to her? He hadn’t said a word about Hamza since he left Utrecht. Just thinking about his brother brought tears to his eyes.

Majid silently cursed himself—they’d had sex one time and he’s already bringing her home? Roberta couldn’t be his girlfriend, or anyone’s girlfriend. Like Pietro had said, she was a different kind of girl. 

“Are we gossiping like old women or are we sparring?” he said.

Roberta was pushed from his thoughts as easily as throwing a punch.

* * *

Majid woke up before dawn, even though it was Saturday. He trained early every day, even on the weekends. His trainer begged him to take Sundays for himself, “ _Per l’amor di Dio,_ go see a movie or go on a date,” but it was easier for Majid to keep to the same routine every day. The less time he had to himself, the less opportunities he had to get into trouble.

The building was quiet as he jogged down the stairs, his hood up, only his heartbeat in his ears—but the quiet was suddenly broken by muttered cursing and the sound of the front door closing.

“ _Merda!_ ” cursed Roberta, staggering towards the elevator, her white tank top torn, her hip and thigh covered in bruises and her face dripping with blood. She startled when Majid grabbed her elbow, and he quickly swept off his hood so she could see his face.

“ _Cazzo_ , you scared me. I thought the fucker had followed me.”

“What happened?” said Majid, instinctively reaching for her as she collapsed into his shoulder. “Did someone jump you?”

“It was a _client,”_ scoffed Roberta. “He hit me and tore my clothes. I threw myself out of the car, ripped my head open on the pavement—the _stronzo_ came after me with a _rock_. He was going to bash my head in.”

Majid wrapped Roberta into his arms as she began to cry. His heart was racing out of his chest. He’d told himself that Roberta was tough, and strong, and could fight off anyone who messed with her, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was her broken body on the side of a deserted road.

They were both shaking now, but Majid managed to gather Roberta into the elevator and press the button for the fifth floor without letting her go. Roberta sniffled into his shoulder.

“It could have been worse,” she said. “So much worse. _Grazie Dio_ Luca gave me that pepper spray. I got him before he could hit me again, but I ran the whole way here. If he followed me—”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Majid. “I’ll stay with you.”

Roberta nodded gratefully and they were silent as they entered her apartment. Majid settled Roberta on her bed before going through her kitchen for supplies.

“You don’t have any steaks or frozen vegetables?” he said, frowning at her empty freezer.

“What am I, rich?” scoffed Roberta.

“What about bandages?”

Roberta just groaned. “You’re the boxer, not me.”

“Stay here,” said Majid. “I’ll be right back.”

Majid tore down the stairs to the third floor, and imagined going right out and finding that guy and punching him to _death_. . . but he took some deep breaths, reminded himself that Roberta needed him now, she didn’t even have bandages in her apartment, what kind of crazy person doesn’t have those?

When Majid returned to Roberta’s with his arms full of supplies, she was still on the bed, breathing hard with her head in her hands.

“Don’t leave again until it’s light out?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Please?”

”Of course,” said Majid. He gently pressed ice packs to her bruises, and inspected the wound on her head. Her wig was askew and her natural hairline was matted with blood, but the actual wound wasn’t that deep.

“I have to take this off, okay?” he said, carefully removing her wig.

Roberta just nodded. He hummed to himself as he used one of his workout towels to wash the matted blood out of her natural hair, a light brown compared to her bold raven wig.

“It’s pretty, this color,” he said.

“It’s _mousy_ ,” said Roberta.

“You could never be a mouse,” he smiled. “This might sting a little.”

Roberta didn’t flinch as he disinfected her wound and dressed it with a bandage. “There you go,” he said. “Now you look like a boxer.”

Roberta burst out laughing, then crumpled into tears. Majid recognized the feeling: the adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by searing pain that hit all at once. Roberta couldn’t even bear to sit up anymore, and collapsed into her pillow, as Majid pulled the duvet up over her.

“This is awful,” she said. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Majid dutifully rubbed her shoulders. “You don’t have to.”

“But what else can I do?”

Majid was quiet as he undressed to his boxers and T-shirt and climbed into bed. Roberta clung to his chest and buried her face in the crook of his neck, as if willing herself to disappear. 

Finally, he said, “My friend Pietro, his uncle Mahmoud owns a shawarma stand. He loves making shawarma, hates dealing with customers. Pietro’s brother runs the register on the weekends, but Mahmoud’s on his own during the week, and he gets . . . overwhelmed. Sometimes he sees the line for the lunch rush and just closes down the whole stand. So he needs help. I’ll tell Pietro to set you up. Okay?”

Roberta took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Majid closed his eyes with a satisfied nod. Roberta wondered if she was imagining his arms tightening around her as she fell asleep.

He was gone when she woke up, well into the afternoon, but she had a text that apologized for leaving. He had to get to a training session for his next fight.

“I left the ice packs in your freezer. Use them! Let me know if you need anything,” said his last text.

Roberta’s stomach did a somersault. Even though she was sore and battered and bruised, for the rest of the day, she couldn’t help but smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Roberta never expected men to keep their word. Life was easier and less disappointing that way. So she was shocked when Majid texted her the very next day, instructing her to go to a shawarma stand on Tuesday morning and tell Mahmoud she was Pietro’s friend.

Mahmoud was a small, shy, grey-haired man who reminded Roberta of her friend Luca. He didn’t make eye contact with her for the first ten minutes of their conversation, but waved his arms like a conductor as he passionately told the tale of perfecting his recipe for garlic sauce.

“You are a maestro! A true artist, but your canvas is the pita!” said Roberta, and Mahmoud blushed like a schoolboy.

She started work the next day. By the end of her first lunch rush, her feet were sore but she’d devised a system to make the line less chaotic. She made signs with strict instructions and posted them on the counter. By her second lunch rush, the line was orderly, quiet, and customers had their orders ready and their cash in hand when she beckoned them to the register.

Roberta handled all the orders methodically and with a dazzling smile, while Mahmoud made the pitas at his assembly line at lightning speed, dinging a bell with a happy shout when each one was done.

“You are so _efficient_ ,” whispered a woman as Roberta handed her a bag of heavenly smelling food. “This place is usually a mess!”

“It’s only my second day,” said Roberta with a wink. “Next, please!”

By Friday, Roberta was starting to remember the regulars and had their orders tallied up before they even spoke. The lunch rush was so relaxed that Mahmoud didn’t realize it had started.

“You’re a miracle worker, Roberta,” he said, as she put on her coat to leave at the end of the day. “I didn’t have to look at a single customer all week! And they were so _quiet_! Oh, it was heaven. You’re an angel sent from heaven!”

“This angel will see you on Monday,” said Roberta.

* * *

Roberta had texted Luca to meet her at the club, to celebrate her first week, but he made some excuse just as she was heading out. She thought about texting Majid, but when she’d texted him throughout the week, thanking him for getting her the job and telling him it was going well, he either responded after several hours or not at all.

She’d have more fun dancing by herself anyway.

So when she saw Majid at the bar, nursing a drink by himself, she thought she was seeing things.

“Not training tonight?” she said, mentally cursing herself for seeming like she was keeping track of his schedule.

“I fought tonight,” he sighed.

“Oh,” she said. “Didn’t go well?”

“I _won_ ,” he said sheepishly. “The idiot was out of his mind. Went for my kidneys in the first round. Disqualified himself, so I won—on a technicality. All that time, all that work, and it was over in a few seconds.”

Roberta hummed sympathetically, then reached for his hand. “At least you’ll have more energy for dancing.”

Majid scoffed into his drink, but let her lead him onto the floor. It was easy to fall into their same rhythm, dancing to the music at first but then swaying to something only they could hear. Majid’s face was tucked in so close that the soft scratch of his beard on her cheek and the warmth of his steady breath on her neck made Roberta feel like they were in bed together.

And when they ended up in her bed together, it was just as easy. He was much more confident this time, exploring her body and giving of his own with abandon. His smile when he found Roberta’s prostate was enough to send her over the edge in itself. 

When Majid woke before dawn, Roberta clung to him and groaned, “Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” he said, throwing on his clothes. “My next fight is in two weeks. I have to give it everything I have, Roberta.”

“I understand,” she sighed. “This is what you love.”

He kissed her softly, on her forehead and then her lips. “I’ll meet you at the club after my fight. We’ll celebrate together.”

“You’ll dance with me?” said Roberta.

Majid just smiled and kissed her temple before leaving.

* * *

Roberta counted down the days until the Friday of Majid’s fight. Fortunately time passed quickly at the shawarma stand, which was now a well-oiled machine under her watch. The customers waited silently until she beckoned them forward, had their orders and cash ready, and Mahmoud was so happy that he sang in Arabic at his assembly line, even during the lunch rush. She knew all the regulars by name now, and they said, “ _Ciao_ Roberta, see you tomorrow,” as they collected their food.

She was anxious all of Friday, unsure if she should text Majid to confirm their meeting at the club, or to ask what time he expected to be there, but she told herself that she wasn’t his girlfriend, this was just a casual thing, he would probably bring his friends anyway, why were her toes tapping nervously on their own?

Still, she took three hours to get ready—she couldn’t get her make-up just right, every outfit looked horrible, she hated the beauty mark on her cheek all of a sudden—but finally, she wandered into the club, her heart leaping at the sight of every black leather jacket.

Majid wasn’t there. She waited and waited, drinking more and dancing less as the night wore on, but only when it was her and a few stragglers asleep in a booth did she admit that Majid wasn’t coming.

Roberta felt tears in her eyes as she stumbled home, and admonished herself not to ruin her make-up. What if she ran into him at the door? It had happened before.

But the building was silent and the elevator was empty. Roberta staggered to bed and tried not to think of where Majid could be—in his apartment with another girl? Out at a different club, with beautiful women fawning over him as he celebrated his victory?

He was never hers, she reminded herself. He could have anyone he wanted. She’d been foolish to forget that.


	4. Chapter 4

A quiet knock on her door woke Roberta out of a troubled sleep. It was well after four in the morning. She threw on a satin robe and her wig and opened the door to find an exhausted Majid, with his right arm in a sling and a brace on his shoulder.

She beckoned him inside before he could say anything. He stumbled right to her bed and sat with his head slumped down, too tired to speak.

“Do you need something?” she said quietly. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

He looked up at her with desperate eyes. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “I just got home from the hospital, they gave me pills and told me to sleep, but I can’t, I need . . . I need . . .”

“It’s okay. _Sono qui_ ,” said Roberta. “I’ll take care of you.”

He sighed with grateful relief. Roberta gently undressed him, looking to Majid for confirmation before taking off each piece of clothing. It took some maneuvering to get his T-shirt off with the sling, but Majid was like a doll in her hands, pliable and soft. He was struggling to keep his eyes open and Roberta had to tell him twice to stand up so she could remove his jeans.

Majid awkwardly clambered into bed using only one arm, and she pulled the duvet over his chest. His sleepy smile made her stomach twist in knots.

She thought he might want to sleep alone, but before she could ask, he pulled the duvet back with his good arm.

“Need you,” he said, with his eyes closed.

Roberta slipped off her wig and robe and tucked herself into Majid’s good shoulder, her face fitting into her favorite spot on his chest. Majid was already asleep.

* * *

Later, Roberta had Chinese food delivered, and they ate in silence on the couch.

Majid struggled to eat with his left hand. No matter what angle he used on approach, the food just wouldn’t stay on his fork.

“I can do it,” he insisted, after dropping yet another noodle on the floor.

“I know you can,” said Roberta. “But if you want, I could feed you. _Come un bambino_.”

Majid narrowed his eyes at her, then chuckled a little. “It wouldn’t be so bad,” he said. “Then I wouldn’t have to leave.”

“You don’t have to leave,” said Roberta, her voice suddenly shy. When was the last time she’d been shy?

He stared down at his sling, as if debating what to say next. 

“I dislocated my shoulder,” he said. “Well, the _other_ guy dislocated my shoulder. I didn’t even feel it. The adrenaline, it numbs everything. I knocked him out. I won, Roberta. Still, look at me. Can’t even eat noodles.”

Roberta rubbed his back to comfort him, but he wouldn’t look at her.

“My trainer took me to the hospital. It didn’t really start to hurt until we were almost there. They popped it back in . . . I blacked out, Roberta, it hurt so bad. I’ve never blacked out from pain. Not even when they broke my hand. And when I blacked out . . . I saw you.”

“Me?” said Roberta.

Majid fixed his dark eyes on her. His eyes were so soft and open, and she ached with the thought that this was how he looked when he was a little boy, before the world got to him. 

“I saw you, in a white dress, smiling at me. I heard your voice saying my name. And then it didn’t hurt anymore.”

Roberta pressed her forehead against his, unsure of what to say, but the silence was comfortable. It felt like home.


	5. Chapter 5

Although he had to wear the brace for several weeks, Majid insisted on training as much as he could with one arm. But with no fights lined up until his shoulder healed, he had more time to spend with Roberta. He barely set foot in his own apartment, claiming he wanted Roberta close by in case he forgot to take his pain pills or needed help in the shower. 

Majid could shower pretty well himself—he was allowed to take the brace off for that—but since he wasn’t supposed to move his shoulder at all, he insisted it was more efficient if he and Roberta showered together.

She had been nervous the first time, of being naked with him in the bright light of the bathroom, with no make-up or wig. She thought she could get away with standing behind him as she washed his hair and scrubbed his back, but he turned around in her arms and dotted slow kisses all over her face.

Sex was a bit more vanilla than before, a few positions off the table since Majid could only use one arm, but Roberta was nothing if not creative.

In the dark, Roberta tucked herself into his chest and he held her close with his good arm. His voice barely loud enough to hear, Majid told her about his life in Utrecht. His friends that were either dead or in prison now. How he’d done his own time, and still got caught up in a web of gangsters who deliberately broke his hand before a fight.

With halting words, he told her about his brother Hamza, the golden boy of the family, his father’s favorite, Majid had watched him waste away in a hospital bed until he was so frail that Majid could lift him in his arms like a child.

Roberta listened, and held him through his sudden sobbing jags, humming soothing sounds against his neck.

She told him about her first memory—looking in the mirror and being shocked and scared to see a boy looking back. How her father hit her, her mother burned her dresses, but still, she fought to be herself. The neighborhood kids had teased her, but then she and Luca banded together as fellow outcasts, and they’d been friends ever since, even though he was cranky and a misogynist and hated dancing.

She even told him the story of how she started walking the streets, a story she’d never fully expressed to anyone, not even to herself. She’d left home before she could be thrown out, her only friend in the world was Luca, but she couldn’t ask him to help her, and she’d never seen anyone like her in any other profession than the oldest in the world, so . . . one night she went out, unsure if she’d even make any money, and she’d come back with enough for a month’s rent and a new pair of heels.

”Weren’t you scared?” Majid asked.

“At first, no,” she said. “It was exciting, for a while. Feeling like I was going out every night with my life in my hands. Living on that edge between safe and asleep, and dangerous and alive.”

Majid hummed softly, like he knew exactly what she was talking about.

It occurred to Roberta that she’d never felt truly safe in any place before Majid’s arms. She started to say something, but then Majid squeezed her tighter and kissed the top of her head, and when she shifted to look in his eyes, she felt that he already knew.

* * *

Roberta was a little sorry when Majid was healed enough to take off the brace and he went back to full training. Majid’s trainer wasn’t pushing him, thankfully, wanting to ease him back before scheduling any fights. Majid spent most nights at her apartment, but there were no more long conversations into the night.

They still showered together more often than not, even more efficient now that Majid could wash Roberta’s hair and scrub her back in return, and slightly less so whenever they ended up lost in each other until the water ran cold. 

Roberta called him _tesoro_ , and Majid called her _habibti,_ but they never said out loud what they were to each other, if they were a couple or if they were exclusive or not, but Majid spent every moment that he wasn’t in the gym with her, he had a drawer of workout clothes at her apartment, and his black leather jacket was always draped over a chair at her kitchen table. 

They’d planned to go to the club on Friday, and meet Pietro and Ezio for dinner beforehand, so Roberta was surprised to see Pietro calling her in the middle of the lunch rush at the shawarma stand.

“ _Pronto_?” she said, as Pietro spilled information faster than she could process—they were in an ambulance. Majid was going to the hospital. He’d been hit in the head. He’d told Pietro to call Roberta. He wasn't saying anything now. 

“I have to go,” said Roberta, throwing on her coat. “My boyfriend’s hurt. I’m sorry—”

“Go, go!” said Mahmoud, pushing her out. “Don’t worry about me, I can handle these animals!”

Roberta got a taxi, and she was shaking all the way to the hospital. Thankfully, Pietro and Majid’s trainer met her in the lobby. Majid was being examined, they said, but he had all the signs of a serious concussion.

“What happened?” said Roberta. “I thought he was training.”

“It’s my fault,” said the trainer, as Pietro protested. “I have some younger guys coming up, they all want to prove themselves by sparring with _il Lupo_. This cocky little _stronzo,_ he’s been pestering Majid for weeks, Majid thought he could teach him some humility, but this little shit—he kept punching even when Majid was on the ground—”

“He’s not welcome in our gym anymore,” said Pietro. “If he shows his face, I’ll kill him.”

“I’ll help you get rid of the body,” said the trainer.

A nurse beckoned them over. “He’s asking for his girlfriend.”

She narrowed her eyes at Roberta, but Roberta just smiled and walked as fast as her heels would let her.

Majid looked small and frail in the hospital bed, his head bandaged and his face swollen and red. Roberta started to cry as she instinctively reached to cradle his face and he winced with pain.

“I’m okay,” he reassured her, as Roberta clutched at his hands. “It could have been worse. Please don’t cry, _habibti_.”

“I didn’t cry the last time you got hurt,” she sniffled. “So I have extra tears this time.”

Majid sighed sadly and kissed her hands. 

The trainer and Pietro were hanging back at the doorway, quietly talking.

“What are you two conspiring about over there?” said Majid.

“How to wrap you in plastic bubbles,” shot the trainer, and he and Majid chuckled together.

“Lupo. I have your phone,” said Pietro, handing it to Majid. “I texted your brother from the ambulance, like you said, I don’t know if he got it—”

“Oh, he got it,” said Majid, scrolling through his texts. “Wow, my mother filled my voicemails and then texted me that my voicemails are full. Many times.”

His face suddenly darkened and drained of color. 

“What’s going on?” said Roberta.

“My family is coming here.”


	6. Chapter 6

Roberta stayed by Majid’s side until a kind nurse told her she had to leave for the night, and she returned before Majid woke up in the morning. The swelling in his face had gone down, replaced by angry purple bruising. He woke up slowly, then smiled as Roberta fussed at his bandages.

“I’m okay, really, it doesn’t even hurt,” he said, stilling her hands with his own.

“You’re going to give me grey hair, _amore_ ,” said Roberta.

Majid smiled ruefully, and squeezed Roberta’s fingers as if they were grounding him as he found his words.

“I have to quit fighting,” he said. “I’m injured more than I’m not. Everyone’s window is short. I got lucky this time. I won’t the next time.”

“But you love it,” said Roberta.

He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.

“It’s not the only thing I love anymore.”

Noisy footsteps suddenly descended towards them, and Majid squeezed Roberta’s hand as a tired-looking couple, trailed by a young boy, burst into the room. Majid’s father was an imposing man who was clearly used to getting the last word in disagreements. He immediately launched into a rapid-fire tirade in a mix of Dutch and Arabic directed at Majid, while his eyes darted suspiciously in Roberta’s direction.

Majid’s mother was a small, sweet woman with worried eyes, and she held up a hand to silence Majid’s father so she could fuss over her son’s bandages.

Roberta couldn’t understand what they were saying, but she knew perfectly well that Majid was attempting to reassure her that he was fine, and she wasn’t having it. It made Roberta smile to see that she and Majid’s mother had at least one thing in common: Majid couldn’t fool them for a second.

Majid’s father said something that made both the mother and brother visibly tense. Majid hastily introduced Roberta to his family—Roberta wasn’t sure what word meant “girlfriend,” but she knew he must have said it from his family’s reactions: all three of them glared in Roberta’s direction as the father’s voice escalated, the mother clutched her heart, and the brother stared at Roberta with the expression of an exhausted old soul, desperate to feel some semblance of comfort amid chaos.

Both parents peppered Majid with questions, their voices escalating as they vied for his attention, until finally Majid put his hands up and said, in Italian, _“Tesoro,_ will you run to the coffee cart for us? Baba likes black coffee and Mama likes Earl Grey. Tarik will go with you. He can practice his English.”

At the mention of his name, the boy’s eyes widened in confusion. Majid spoke to him in Dutch, and Tarik nodded obediently.

Roberta kissed Majid’s hand.

“This way, Tarik,” she said, in English. The boy hesitated for a moment before following her. The parents’ voices had already reached full volume before they were out the door.

The coffee cart could not have been further from Majid’s room. Tarik was silent as Roberta led him through the hallways, past gurneys and crash carts and a pair of nurses rapidly chattering before pausing to gawk at the odd duo: a strangely tall, angular woman striding confidently in a bright red coat with matching heels, and a young boy in a wrinkled Dutch football jersey staring down at worn sneakers that he was moments away from outgrowing.

Finally, Tarik spoke up, in soft, halting English.

“Are you really Majid’s girlfriend?”

“Yes,” said Roberta, smiling at him, but Tarik would not look her in the eyes.

“Do you know he was in jail?”

“Yes.”

His voice softened to the point that Roberta could barely hear him.

“Do you know about Hamza?”

“Yes.”

Tarik met her eyes then, his own wide with surprise. Then, his face darkened.

“Does he know you’re really a man?”

Before Roberta could respond, Tarik flinched backwards, as if he expected her to hit him. She didn’t have the energy or the English to explain gender identity or the concept of assigned sex at birth to this kid. Who knew what he was hearing at school or from that Harry Potter _cagna._ He still had baby fat on his cheeks. Majid had told her so many times that Tarik was eerily like himself when he was young.

Roberta took a breath and said, “Majid knows everything about me. He knows I was born a boy, but my soul was always a girl. And Majid knows my soul.”

Tarik smiled slightly, with just one corner of his mouth, then went back to staring at his shoes.

The coffee cart finally appeared.

“Baba likes sugar in his coffee. He doesn’t tell Mama,” said Tarik.

Roberta winked at him, and clouds parted when he beamed at her.

When they returned to Majid’s room, his parents were speaking in a softer, more relaxed tone and Majid looked much happier to have them there. His mother even thanked Roberta in Dutch for the tea.

Majid reached for Roberta’s hand and she laced their fingers together. His father looked away, but his mother smiled gently. Tarik whispered something to her—Roberta thought she heard “Hamza”—and she gasped a little, then discreetly wiped one eye.

“My parents have to go back to Utrecht tomorrow,” said Majid. “They couldn’t get the time off work. But Tarik is on his school holidays—what do you think about him staying with us, for a couple of weeks?”

“With us?” said Roberta.

“He can have my apartment and I’ll stay with you,” said Majid, laughing a little. “A whole bachelor pad to himself. He’ll love it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sitting outside at a touristy but only slightly overpriced restaurant near the Colosseum, her boyfriend and his little brother digging into heaping plates of pasta like it was about to be declared illegal, Roberta needed a moment to take in how much things had changed for her in barely a year.

Her nights on the streets felt like another life entirely. With the sun warm on her bare shoulders, she couldn’t imagine going back to sleeping during the day.

“After this, can we get real gelato?” said Tarik, speaking Italian with his mouth full. He was picking up Italian quickly, and blushed whenever Roberta complimented him on it.

“Of course,” said Majid, his mouth equally full. “And some real Italian pastries, as well.”

“And then we should walk around the Forum a few times, to burn off all this food,” said Roberta, daintily twirling a single noodle.

Majid and Tarik stared at her like she’d suggested they get abducted by aliens as a fun diversion, then started laughing.

“Never mind!” said Roberta, giggling as she dramatically flicked her napkin. “I guess I’ll have to roll you two back home!”

“Oh, Roberta takes good care of us, doesn’t she?” said Majid, still laughing.

Tarik nodded emphatically around a huge bite of pasta, then carefully considered his words before saying, “You should marry her.”

Roberta’s heart jumped, but Majid just winked at his brother.

“You think she’d have me?” he said, his voice suddenly shy.

Roberta cupped Majid’s cheek and he kissed her palm. They gazed into each other's eyes, like they were the only two people in the world, both pretending not to notice when Tarik grabbed a bite of Majid’s pasta.

“Then you can move into her apartment and I can keep yours,” grinned Tarik. 

"Oh! He just wants to keep his bachelor pad," scoffed Roberta.

“You do like having nice Dutch boys for neighbors,” said Majid.

“So that’s how it is,” said Roberta, as Majid pulled her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m at flapperfromthefuture on tumblr and happy to flail about nice things that we can’t have!


End file.
